To Victoria Edgecombe

Daniel writes to Victoria

To: Victoria Edgecombe

Daniyaal Husseini

1/345, 2nd Cross Street,

Neelankarai,

Chennai 600065

  5/1/2013

Dear Victoria,

We were packing up stuff for the shift today and I went around the house singing The Best A Man Can Get with some smushed up words for the verse. The 90’s were truly the best time for ad campaigns. They’re running this repulsive thing now called PASS – Protest Against Smelly Stubble. I feel rather embarrassed. And I don’t know how they’re expecting this campaign to work in South India where hairy men are as omnipresent as the humidity.

You know, I used to shave every day before I met you. I was an innocent, moon-faced twenty-one year old. Also I wrote poems about you on the back of my political science notes. We’d had barely two conversations. The first one went like this:

“Hi, I’m Daniel.”

“Your breath smells like whisky.”

“Would you like some?”

“No, thank you. Excuse me please.”

That spawned a couple of poems. And other stuff you needn’t know about. I spoke to you again a few days later.

“Excuse me.”

“Well, at least you have the courtesy to not thrust your personal information upon me this time.”

“It was my name. I was given to believe that disclosing one’s name is deemed to be polite. If I’d given you a business card your harshness would be justified.”

“Are you a hooker?”

“What?”

“Are you?”

“Well, do I look like one?”

“I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking you.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Then I’m not interested. Sorry.”

(At this point you took a sip of your green tea from that dreadful flask you used to carry around in those days.)

I said, “I need that book for my coursework. When will you be done with it?”

And then you said, “Whenever I will be. Goodbye, Daniel.”

And I still didn’t know your name. Also your casual employment of existential paradox in conversation attracted me even more. I spoke to Claire Richmond. You remember her. She was in our Psychology class. Anyway, she said that you like intelligent, bearded men, and I had come across as neither, so the next time I spoke to you, it was two weeks later, and I had more hair on my face than I’d ever had and I was holding an Ayn Rand book under my arm.

You slept with me that night. I will forever be thankful to Claire Richmond. Also, I didn’t shave again after that. It made Dad happy too – but a man who downs a glass of Scotch every other night can’t possible call himself a devout follower of Islam. I think the beard was just the easiest thing to maintain; easier than abstinence, in any case.

My parents were looking at me like I was happy or something. When I was singing the Gillette song, I mean. Now I’m sitting outside next to Mum’s dying ladysfinger patch. I’m on my second pack of the day already, but chain-smoking is the healthiest of habits I’m considering adopting right now. There was crack going around at Farhan’s New Year party. I almost did it. I didn’t. I didn’t.

Mum’s left her box of old kitchen knives out again.

Love, always,

Daniel.